


Ask the Dust

by nosferatu_insideofyou



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Christianity, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Memory Loss, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religion, Traumatic Brain Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26204914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosferatu_insideofyou/pseuds/nosferatu_insideofyou
Summary: The way both slave and Legionary alike spoke of the Malpais Legate created an amalgam in Lou’s mind of a horrid beast wandering the wastes; a patchwork monster of marred flesh and muscle with a stone of malice and bloodlust where his heart should be. What she found, instead, was just a man—burned, broken, and left for dead. That fact should’ve made it all the easier to bury her knife in his back, but it only served to demoralize her for failing to do so.Lou wondered how long it would be before the Legion learned of her failure and sought to silence her permanently, lest she spread word that the Burned Man walks.
Relationships: Courier (Fallout) & Joshua Graham, Courier/Joshua Graham, Female Courier & Joshua Graham, Female Courier/Joshua Graham, Joshua Graham (Fallout)/Original Character(s), Joshua Graham/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Return to the Mojave

**Author's Note:**

> I've dearly missed the Fallout universe, and I've been sucked back in after spending several years away from it. Just as an FYI, there will be some triggering topics covered in this fic, but I won't get too into detail with most of it. (I've tried to tag the work appropriately.) I also promise there will be a positive ending.
> 
> x

_August 23, 2282_

_New Vegas outskirts_

———

A wall of dust had risen up from earth to heavens on the eastern horizon, miles wide and reflecting a reddish-orange hue it borrowed from the setting sun. The monolithic cloud swallowed up each mountain in its path, slowly and one by one, as Lou stood outside an abandoned house on the outskirts of New Vegas, a crooked cigarette dangling between her lips. She knew the sight well, knew it heralded the arrival of a torrential downpour behind it and the beginning of the wet season. If a life spent wandering the desert wastes hadn’t taught her as much, the tall, pillowy clouds that loomed in the east for the past two days would’ve been a surefire sign of the approaching cell.

Newcomers to the Mojave would often stare wide-eyed and fearful at the sight of their first dust storm, scrambling for shelter as if a 200-year-old nuke had taken its sweet-ass time to finally detonate somewhere in the empty desert. Truth was, the only thing that’d happen if you were caught outside would be a mouthful of red dirt or, at worst, a nasty case of valley fever, but she couldn’t blame the tourists for their fearful reactions. If she let her mind wander far enough, she could almost imagine it was a cloud of nuclear fallout rolling in to overtake the scorched earth as it had two centuries prior.

Of course, if the old info vids were any kind of authority on the subject, a blast of that magnitude would overtake her before she’d even have a chance to finish her cigarette. Fortunately for her, dust storms moved at a radroach’s pace, comparatively. She’d have plenty of time to finish her smoke before the wall swallowed up the humble dwelling she’d made camp in for the night.

She turned her attention to the south, toward the neon lights of the strip as they sparkled and danced in the distance. She thought of the people there: drunken gamblers stumbling to the next dive; hookers with sad eyes half-heartedly flirting with the NCR soldiers outside of Gomorrah; drifters and lowlifes engaging in whatever illicit activities in the back allies would make them a quick cap. It was in stark contrast to the sanctity of the red valley she’d called home for the summer, and the juxtaposition made her head spin. Lou was close enough that she could’ve made it to the Lucky 38 by that evening if she’d tried. But the impending storm had given her reason to bunker down for the night. And besides, one more night alone would suit her just fine.

Lou was no stranger to solitude—something that Joshua had noticed from the beginning. She hated that; hated how easily he read her as if her face was one of those goddamned books he flipped through by the fire each night. So when Follows-Chalk came to her, offering to accompany her through the Narrows at Joshua’s insistence, she’d politely declined. 

That was her first mistake.

She had a talent for being neither seen nor heard, slipping past foes both human and animal alike; taking what she wanted and vanishing like a specter before they ever even knew she was there. It was why Caesar had chosen her for this task, and it was why she needed to act alone. 

She thought she’d rationalized her solitary behavior well to Follows-Chalk. The Virgin was easy enough to follow, and she had her PipBoy to guide her in case she got twisted around. She told the kid that he would only get in the way. And yet, as she slipped inside the abandoned encampment, she turned her head and saw his ball cap looming low in the brush several yards behind her.

Lou sighed. “I can see you back there, kid,” she called once she knew the area was safe. His affable, tattooed face popped up above the creosote bush he hid behind, and he flushed red with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, miss. I know you said you did not need me,” he said, rising up from his crouch. “But Joshua insisted.” He looked to his left and then to his right. “The White Legs are many in this area.” 

Inside, a little, red warning light flashed. Did the Burned Man distrust her already? ‘Of course he does, you idiot,’ she chided herself inwardly. ‘He hasn’t survived in the wastes this long by trusting every random asshole he’d only met three days ago.’

Still, to get close to him, she needed to gain his trust. Caesar’s words rang out in her head: “He won’t be expecting you”—so eerily similar to the first words she’d heard from Graham’s own mouth—and she planned to make sure he didn’t. Lou plastered a teasing look on her face and rolled her eyes as she waved the kid over. “Shit. Well, come on then.”

Back in the Mojave, Lou smiled wryly as she watched the dust storm, thinking of Follows-Chalk; wondering if he’d found his “growans” enough to talk to Joshua and leave Zion after all. 

Joshua Graham: the Malpais Legate; the Burned Man. The vengeful spirit of the Mojave that haunted the memories of the Legion; a ghost story whispered amongst the children in the camp. The way both slave and Legionary alike spoke of the Malpais Legate created an amalgam in Lou’s mind of a horrid beast wandering the wastes; a patchwork monster of marred flesh and muscle with a stone of malice and bloodlust where his heart should be. What she found, instead, was just a man—burned, broken, and left for dead—and the only righteous retribution he’d planned to inflict was on the tribe of White Legs that sought to drive his new family from their lands. Yes, he was strong, and he was unyielding; imposing, even, in his tall stature and solid musculature. But he was still only a man—albeit, one who had committed heinous atrocities. That fact should’ve made it all the easier to bury her knife in his back, but it only served to demoralize her for failing to do so.

Lou wondered how long it would be before the Legion learned of her failure and sought to silence her permanently, lest she spread word that the Burned Man walks. She wondered, too, when another one of Caesar’s assassins would find him and did what she could not; one who would finish the job Caesar had started at the lip of the Grand Canyon.

Bastard.

She flicked the butt of her spent cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of her boot, perhaps a little harder than was necessary.

Sleep should’ve come easy that night. The late summer storms so often had a sedative effect that rocked her to sleep like a mother’s cooing. But Lou found herself staring at the peeling paint of the old ceiling, her pack hard beneath her head, as the rain battered against the roof—thinking of a different kind of storm that awaited her back at the Lucky 38. She’d never been any good at making decisions, least of all the kind that would alter the course of her life—not to mention the lives of every motherfucker from here to New Mexico. And now that she’d failed her mission, Lou was terrified of what awaited her and wondered how the hell she was supposed to get into that bunker beneath Fortification Hill.

No one knew her real purpose for setting out with the Happy Trails caravan. She’d told Boone they needed the caps. What harm would a quick caravan run to Utah be? Boone merely _hmm’_ ed at her and nodded wordlessly. And if he thought she was full of shit, he didn’t say it. He was good for that, and Lou appreciated him for it. Arcade, on the other hand, was another matter. He expressed his concern with an unscheduled expedition, and yet, he did not press her. Something on her face must’ve communicated to him that she needed this, needed the time alone and away from New Vegas. She never told him what happened at the Tops, but it was clear that the woman who entered that wretched hole was not the same one who came out. Perhaps her face was easier to read these days than she thought. Or perhaps it required the eyes of a well-read man to read it.

Lou fished a bottle from her pack, taking a sip of the crystalline-clear water she’d collected from the Virgin before making her way back through the lonely pass. ‘If only it were whiskey,’ she thought to herself; something to stupefy her shaking hands and rattled nerves. Or better yet, an inhaler of jet. “No,” she scolded herself aloud. She hadn’t had a hit in months, and the longer she stayed away from that shit, the stronger her resolve had been to keep it that way. Or maybe it had been him. Maybe Joshua’s old-world morals and the teachings in those damned books had seeped in and replaced the rot inside her soul somehow.

Not that it mattered; not that she cared.

She stuffed the bottle back in her pack, the smell of campfire and mildew and clean air and White Cliff roses wafting up to meet her nose; the smell of Zion. She leaned back and closed her eyes, imagining the sound of rain on the roof was the soft waves of a winding river and the wind rustling the peeling paint on the walls was the gentle turning of pages in a silly old book.


	2. Walking into Zion

_June 1, 2282_

_The Northern Passage_

———

_Been exactly one week since we left for New Canaan, and we reached Zion this morning. This is the place. I need to find a moment to slip away. Almost feel bad doing it. They seem like nice enough folk, aside from Ricky. Caught him staring at my tits last night. Told him to look somewhere else or I’d make sure he couldn’t look anywhere ever again. The rest are decent though. Hope they make it._

_I got no clue where to start looking for TBM. C said I didn’t need to worry about that. Said I’d know well enough. Fucking..._

Lou searched for the word. She’d never considered herself especially verbose, though her tongue had always been quicker than her draw. But every so often, a word would elude her—like trying to catch hold of a slippery fish with bare hands. Getting shot in the head will do that to a person. She supposed she was lucky memory loss was the only lingering issue. But journaling helped, just like the good doctor said it would. Arcade told her reading would help, too, and offloaded on her whatever texts he had that weren’t filled with terms like “impact analysis” or “General Equilibrium Models.”

After a moment, the light clicked on in her brain.

_...cryptic bastard. I wonder if he even expects me to survive._

She set her pen down and stowed the journal away in her pack to bite into the prickly pear she’d plucked earlier. The fruit here was clean and bright, just like the valley itself, and she savored every bite as the sweet juice dripped down her chin.

Behind her, Stella stood on her watch next to the pack brahmin, eyes scanning the ledges of bright red rock in the gorge. She’d been on edge since yesterday afternoon, convinced they were being followed. Jed accepted Stella’s judgment, but a few of the others believed she was paranoid—even if they wouldn’t say it to her face. But Lou felt it, too. It was like a vague ringing in her ears; a distant voice in a silent house that you weren’t sure was real or imagined. She found her right hand unconsciously settling on the handle of the .44 magnum revolver in its holster on her hip, gently tracing the fine wood grain with her thumb while she surveyed the valley.

A little itch began prickling at the back of Lou’s sunburnt neck, an incessant whine of dissatisfaction that the fruit could not remedy, followed by a flurry of excitement when she remembered the small inhaler in her pack. Lou looked around at her compatriots and noted the location of each one, confirming they were too absorbed in conversation or their meal to notice her. She slipped her hand inside her pack and pulled out the inhaler along with a fresh canister of jet, locking it in place and putting it to her mouth. Within 30 seconds of inhaling, Lou’s head had taken flight into the azure sky above. The ground dropped away as a warmth and weightlessness spread from the center of her chest and seeped into her limbs down to her fingers and toes. She sat back and watched the world drift away.

Now she was happy. Now she was satisfied.

Once the group had finished their morning meal, Lou pulled herself up as the group packed up their temporary camp and continued their way along the narrow pass. By midday, the sun was beaming down bright upon the valley, and Lou placed a dingy, old Stetson on her head to block out the rays. The air was dry and thin—desert air. But it was clean, and the sun’s pleasant warmth here was nothing compared to the oppressive heat of the Mojave.

And the _green_. Goddamn, it was green. And orange. And white. Lou wondered if it was the jet that made the valley shine in technicolor; she had never seen anything like it from here to Shady Sands. Even the sky seemed bluer in Zion, wide and as expansive as the ocean. It was untainted; untouched by the radiation that ruined the wastes and permeated the flesh and hide and leaf of everything that lived there. Lou felt very out of place, like a sinner walking on hallowed ground.

“What was that?” Stella’s voice sprang out like an activated tension trigger. Up ahead, she had stopped abruptly in her tracks, looking above toward the ledge trimmed in green foliage ahead of them. Lou instinctively gripped the wood handle of the .44 on her hip and followed Stella’s gaze. At first, it seemed it was nothing. Maybe a fleeing starling or a young gecko scurrying from a nearby shady spot. But then she saw it: sunlight glinting off the barrel of a gun poking out from over the ledge.

Lou went to draw her revolver, but her reaction was delayed. It was over before she knew what had happened.

Gunfire. Screaming. A body slamming into her with the force of an alpha deathclaw. And then, momentary weightlessness followed by a sharp pain on her back and head before everything went black.

The next thing she saw was that same clear-blue ocean sky and the tall walls of the canyon flanking either side of it. A young, tattooed face peered over her own with apparent concern. And her entire lower body was wet. ‘Great,’ she thought. ‘I’ve pissed myself,’ and then her vision blackened once more.

When she opened her eyes again, she was greeted with a similar sight, only this time it was a whole group of curious faces standing over her, a kaleidoscope of dark tattoos and inquisitive eyes. She blinked once; twice, and then her vision cleared, and a dull throb beat against the back of her skull—right below the scarred-over wound where Benny’s bullet had exited her brain. The faces spoke to each other. The words were loud enough to hear, but they made little sense in her muddled head. ‘Oh, now I’ve really gone and done it,’ she thought. ‘Guess that’s one too many blows to the head.’ Then, the ring of faces all turned at once in the same direction, dispersing and causing the sunlight overhead to shine directly in her eyes. She was vaguely aware of a presence that appeared to her right and that it squatted down next to her.

“Can you hear me?” a low voice spoke. It was harsh and warm at the same time; it soothed as much as it burned like a tempered fire. Like whiskey or a newly-lit cigarette. Lou groaned in acknowledgment, closing her eyes to block out the sun and grateful she had at least a few brain cells left intact to understand. She was so tired, so completely fucking tired. “Stay with me now,” the voice commanded, though the tone was not ungentle. The sun was suddenly blocked out from her face, and she fought against the incessant weight of her eyelids to look up at a new face peering down at her; a face that was wrapped entirely in soft, cotton gauze save for the sharp, clear blue eyes that matched the sky behind them.

———

The human brain is a miraculous thing. So delicate and fragile; all a person is, was, and ever will be packaged up in a gelatinous, wrinkly hunk of meat encased in a hard shell. Kinda like a mirelurk. And much like a mirelurk, it took an awful lot of force to get to that squishy mess inside.

But even a ‘lurk can only take so much banging around before it’s down for good. Doc Mitchell told Lou the fact that she survived a point-blank bullet to the brain was a genuine miracle. But that word made her uncomfortable.

“Miracle” implied some kind of divine intervention, that God—or whatever—had reached down and guided the trajectory of Benny’s bullet straight through the left hemisphere of Lou’s brain and out the back without hitting anything vital.

Not that she thought there was much in there, to begin with.

In fact, that fancy-jacket pile of shit had fired the gun twice. The first shot merely grazed the side of her head above her ear, taking a small chunk of cartilage with it. The second shot was the one that put her down. So to Lou, her “miraculous” survival was more likely due to the fact that Benny Gecko was a lousy shot.

She didn’t walk away completely unscathed either. There were gaps here and there. A string of words wouldn’t come out quite right. A name or a face she’d known as well as her own was suddenly impossible to recall. It was about a month after waking up in Goodsprings when she realized she couldn’t remember what her childhood best friend had looked like. That realization hurt more than anything. Another victim of the wasteland’s harsh realities gone before her time, her only legacy being the memories of her in the head of the person who loved her most.

And now those were gone, too. It was a more permanent kind of death.

Of course, there were other things she _wished_ she could forget; things she had done, shameful and raw and nagging at her conscience. But of course, those things stuck with her like a bad tattoo. If there _was_ a god, then perhaps this was her penance for all her sins. Perhaps the slow dissipation of everything good in her life would leave only the memories of innocence lost; the faces of lives she’d taken and others she’d surely ruined. Her own personal Hell on Earth.

So when Lou woke up on a bed of animal hide and dried grass in a dark cave with a dull throbbing on the back side of her head, she panicked. As she stared up at the wet, dripping ceiling, she searched her mind, thinking back on the faces of anyone she gave a damn about, anyone else the wastes had stolen from her, to make sure she could recount them. Her mother, her sister, the boy who’d helped her escape that slavers’ camp near Two Sun and traveled with her for a piece—until his collar finally activated.

Once Lou was satisfied that her brain was no worse for wear (well, not more than it already had been), she tapped her hip in search of her revolver. The holster was empty.

Fuck.

Lou sat up to survey the area before her, scanning the room for the sight of her belongings. It was a large chamber, though the huddle of makeshift beds and a warm fire in the middle made for a cozy environment. There were crates and clay pots and animal hides stretched out on tanning racks. The beds appeared empty, and best she could tell, she was alone—and her possessions were nowhere in sight. Her stomach growled then, and her tongue suddenly felt like sandpaper against the roof of her mouth; she wondered absently how long she’d been out. Slowly, she sat up from her nest of fur and grass, her aching back protesting her every movement.

_Click._

_Click._

The unmistakable sound of a magazine clip being locked into place echoed off the cavern walls, and Lou gingerly turned her head toward the source. There appeared to be a torch-lit passageway leading deeper into the cavern, and Lou pulled herself up despite the pain and crept her way towards the sound. The other end of the passage opened up to a smaller chamber in the cave, and Lou hid herself in shadow as she peeked around the corner.

The firelight was low, throwing long shadows across the cave walls. A man—presumably—sat straight-backed at a wooden table on a raised piece of earth, his back facing a wall where his large, dark shadow mimicked his every movement. Though her vision was still clouded with sleep, she could see he wore some sort of white headwrap that obscured all but the eyes, which were currently set deep in shadow and fixated on the task before him.

_Click._

_Click._

He loaded a magazine into a small pistol and set it neatly into a stack of identical ones before picking up another. His movements were practiced and nimble, checking the chamber and spinning the gun around his finger to replace the clip as if he’d done this a thousand times over. Judging by the number of pistols in the stacks, Lou thought that was entirely likely.

Once he set the pistol in his hand down with the others, the man paused, placing his palms on his thighs and staring down at his lap. Silence filled the space between them, and Lou couldn’t help but compare him to one of those protectron units completing a repetitive chore and going into standby. (She absently wondered if he _was_ some kind of synthetic man, based on his precision and aptitude for such a methodical task, but of course, that was crazy talk.)

Suddenly, the man at the table looked up, blue eyes piercing the dark directly to where she hid.

“I wasn’t expecting any visitors,” a deep, whiskey-smooth voice called to her; that same voice from before. It rang like a church bell, reverberating and echoing off the cavern walls. “You need not hide in shadow.” Well, damn, he was nothing if not perceptive.

Lou hesitated, staring back at the man, broad-shouldered and composed like an emperor on his throne; like Caesar. Except, not at all like Caesar. When Lou had entered the tent at Fortification Hill, she’d been a bundle of nerves, but it had less to do with the man himself than the Legion as a whole—and what their presence in the Mojave represented. As she stood before their leader, she’d been surrounded on all sides by vultures waiting for her to make one wrong move so they could swoop down and pick her bones clean. As for Caesar himself, she found him somewhat underwhelming: he’d slouched on his throne, a paranoid and cantankerous old man; knobby knees and skinny legs poking out from beneath his skirt.

But the man that called for her now was far closer to what she had imagined when she thought of a fearsome warlord: serene, collected, _dangerous_. The room was empty of other inhabitants, but it might as well have been filled with every soldier in the Legion for all the space his presence occupied. Lou swallowed hard and stepped into the light as she tried to speak, but it came out as a fit of coughing that made the throbbing in her head rear up with a renewed vengeance.

“Water?” Lou croaked between coughs. She hardly recognized her own voice, groggy and rough from sleep and dehydration. It was all the more she could bring herself to say, but he took her meaning.

“Of course,” he replied. Rising from his seat on the rocky platform, the man made his way to a crate behind his perch, removing a key from his pocket and unlocking it. He rummaged around the contents and returned to his chair as he placed a bottle of water in front of the neat stacks of pistols before him. He swept his hand toward it in invitation.

Lou closed the distance in a few short strides, grabbing the bottle from the table, twisting the cap, and sucking down as much of the contents as she could until she was forced to come up for air. She pulled away with a gasp, her breath heavy. She didn’t take her eyes off the man the entire time. 

Closer up, Lou could now see that the wrap was, in fact, a gauze bandage, and it appeared to wrap around the entirety of his neck and arms, too. In fact, the only skin that remained exposed was the flesh around his blue eyes and the tips of his fingers—which were dark and singed. A beat of silence passed between them while Lou steadied her breathing and stared at the man seated before her.

“Where am I?” she asked once she found her voice.

“Dead Horses Point. In Zion. This place, specifically,” he waved a hand casually around the room, “is called Angel Cave.” The man paused, his eyes shining in the amber light. He inhaled and exhaled poignantly before speaking again. “My name is Joshua Graham.”

Lou’s brows shot up, less out of surprise at who he was (the evidence was certainly mounting) and more from Graham’s willingness to reveal his identity so readily. Surely he knew of the legend he had become back in the Mojave; the mythic Burned Man, scourge of the Legion. And yet, here he was, flesh and blood; blue jeans and snakeskin boots—and apparently, no less human than she was.

At the same time, Lou cursed inwardly. It seemed fate had delivered her target to her front door—or more accurately, _she_ had been delivered to _his—_ but she was never one to face her quarry head-on, preferring to take them out from the other end of a long-range scope and slip away like a ghost the moment her bullet made contact. She’d lost the element of surprise and had awoken entirely unarmed and behind enemy lines.

That said, at close range, she had…other talents, though she’d grown tired of relying on them in her growing years. But she found they still had their uses when she was backed into a corner. After all, he was a man, and she could work with that.

“Lou,” she replied, holding her hand out to him. “My name’s Lou.” He stared at her outstretched hand for a moment as if it were some bewildering object, foreign and unfamiliar.

“That is short for ‘Louise,’ I suppose?” he asked.

“‘Lourdes,’ actually.”

Graham’s eyes crinkled at her response, but whether that was caused by a smile or suspicion remained a mystery hidden behind layers of cotton gauze.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lou,” he replied finally with a cordial nod, ignoring her hand and, instead, picking up another pistol to resume his work. Okay, he might be a tougher nut to crack than the average asshole. She supposed getting set on fire and thrown off a cliff would do that to a person. No matter; she would find a way to get close to him. Close enough to strike.

She retracted her hand as Graham resumed speaking: “Although I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances. We should have given you a better welcome upon your arrival to Zion.” His eyes remained fixed on the task at hand, hands as steady as they had been before, but she thought she detected a click in his jaw. “But from what I hear, the White Legs beat us to it.”

“Who?”

“The tribespeople who ambushed your caravan near the Narrows.” Ah yes, Lou remembered Jed mentioning them on their way out of the Mojave. Graham returned his gaze to her. A crease had appeared between his brows. “I am sorry to say that the rest of your party was not as fortunate as you. You have my sympathies.”

Lou supposed she ought to have felt something; not sadness, necessarily. Especially not for that pigheaded dipshit Ricky. But Jed was kind and would share old stories around the campfire as they bunkered down each night. Lou had even grown to like Stella, who had a certain kind of edge and forcefulness she was drawn to in other women. But she’d grown to accept loss as a natural part of life in the Mojave. People left as quickly as they came. And besides, she hardly knew the rest of the travel party. Lou grimaced. “They were alright folk, but I didn’t really know them well. I was just a hired gun.” She grimaced. “Seems like I was a bad investment.”

“Don’t judge yourself too harshly. After all, you weren’t the one who killed them.”

“I never claimed to be a _good_ hired gun,” Lou said with a shrug. “I’m better at watching my own back than other people’s. I make a better courier.”

Graham stiffened. “You’re a courier?”

Lou nodded.

“What a coincidence,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been expecting a courier for some time now.” Now it was Lou’s turn to stiffen. _Did he know of her task? Did he suspect her?_ Graham leaned forward, his eyes searching her face as if he were seeking a message hidden there, and she hoped her poker face was as good as she thought it was. But it appeared he came up empty. He leaned back, relaxed. “Though I doubt you’re the courier I expected.” He went quiet again, and Lou got the feeling he was turning something over in his mind. 

“So, uh, what’d you do with the bodies?”

“Some of the Dead Horses—the tribe that lives here, that is—retrieved them. We were planning to hold a modest service if you wish to join us.”

“Yeah, sure, I- ah, fuck!” Lou had reached a hand around to scratch at the scar on the back of her head, forgetting the fresh, tender spot on her occipital bone. She gingerly pressed two fingers to the area, feeling a small gash...but no blood. As if the area had been cleaned. “Say, you don’t have anything around here for pain, do you? Maybe some med-x?” A sudden rush of need rippled inside her like the zap of a cattle prod. “Or jet, maybe?”

Graham was silent and still as a cat caught mid-step. He seemed to look her over, up and down, and blinked slowly before replying. “I’m afraid we have no stims here. But if you’re in great pain, we can send for one of the healers from the Sorrows tribe.”

Well, shit. Lou scanned the area around them and looked back at him. “Where's my gear? And my gun?” Her mind wandered to the canisters of jet hidden in her pack.

“It is quite possible it remains in the river where you fell. Though that was several hours ago.” Graham picked up another pistol and ejected the magazine. “You fell from a great height. It is rather miraculous you survived at all.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Then it seems God is watching over you,” he said solemnly, never removing his eyes from the task at hand. “ _God_ ”? What did any Legionary know of God unless that god’s name was Caesar? Graham continued: “It may be better to search for your things in the morning. I’ll send one of the warriors along to see you safe.”

———

On a rocky outcropping overlooking the river, the bodies of the caravaners were wrapped in dark, dirty blankets and set atop a pile of kindling. Their clothing was washed in the river, ready for mending and distribution, and their weapons and supplies were stacked on the ground at Lou’s feet. A group of tribespeople stood around the pyre, several of them holding torches. It was a cool night, and the stars above glittered brightly above like the sequined dress of a New Vegas dancer. It reminded Lou of those late spring nights she spent growing up in the great expanse of the Sonoran desert to the south—before the Legion claimed the area for their budding empire.

The service was short but somber, and Lou was nearly startled when Joshua Graham pulled a holy book from inside his jacket and spoke a passage from it before the group:

“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”

So, it seemed the Malpais Legate took himself for a holy man. She wondered if his compatriots knew the truth of him; knew that their warchief was responsible for the torture and killing and raping of so many. He played the part of preacher well: he was charismatic and compelling, she’d give him that. But there was so much blood on the hands that held those scriptures. Holy man or not, she’d take great joy in killing the bastard who’d had a part in driving her from her home—even if putting him down was at Caesar’s behest.

The men and women with the torches held the flames to the kindling, which soon ignited and licked at the shrouded bodies until they were consumed by the blaze. As the flames rose higher, Daniel—the man from the other tribe—sang a solemn hymn. Lou had never heard anything like it.

“By his counsel’s guide uphold you;

with his sheeps securely fold you;

God be with you till we meet again.

till we meet,

till we meet,

till we meet at Jesus’s feet.

till we meet,

till we meet,

God be with you till we meet again.”


End file.
